by Jeff Gunzel
The men watched uneasily, wondering what they had done here. Had this all been a terrible mistake? Tampering in the business of the gods was never a good idea. Uneasy looks were shared around the room, eyes filled with doubt and still an ample measure of distrust. All except one man whose gaze remained fixed on the child. Berkeni looked on, his heavy eyes unable to hide his weariness. Even with the combined efforts of these skilled mystics, the ritual had been extremely taxing.
The swirling funnel slowed down as the last of the golden particles seemed to seep into the child. Berkeni’s legs wobbled, forcing him to reach out and brace himself against the wall. Leaning heavily and suddenly short of breath, he whispered, “It is done. This child’s destiny is now in motion, and the world we know will never be the same. The shadow is coming, and nothing can stop that now.” He wiped a slender hand across the beaded sweat on his forehead. “But at least now we have a fighting chance.”
The door crashed open, nearly blasted off the hinges by a desperate kick. The man in black leaned wearily in the doorway, bloody blades in hand, solemnly shaking his head. His side damp with blood, it was clear he had been wounded. “Too many,” came the breathless rasp. “They’re coming.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Then we hold them here,” said Berkeni, straining to push himself off the wall. With even further effort, he stood tall and moved towards the infant. He gently scooped up the baby, then marched the infant over to the man in black, who backed away as if the child were on fire. “Take him!” the little man shrieked, thrusting the bundle into his reluctant arms. Angry shouts forced Berkeni to peek over the man’s shoulder. The mercenaries would flood the hall any second now. “We’ve already been through this and you know what to do. You hear me? I leave it in your hands. Now go!”
Unsure, the assassin backed away slowly. Wanting to make a stand yet aware of the dire circumstances, he quickly tied the blanket corners into a single knot. After double-wrapping the end around his wrist, he bolted the other way, a single sword drawn in the opposite hand. Berkeni watched the killer streak around the corner, then refocused his attention to the task at hand. The other mystics filtered from the room. They moved slowly, lethargically, calmly taking up various positions around the hall.
The first of many leathers—a lanky, black-haired man who hesitated when he first laid eyes on the hooded group—appeared at the top of the steps. But once a few more joined up beside him, his waning courage returned. Weapons drawn, they charged what looked to be a defenseless group of monks.
Berkeni grinned a diabolical smile. With malice in his eyes, the ever-peaceful man snapped his fingers, producing a tiny orange flame that danced in his palm. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to pass,” he whispered, far too softly for any to hear. The spoken words were no more than his own thoughts, and not meant for anyone’s ears. “A great evil threatening to destroy the world as we know it now sits on our doorstep. I’ve dedicated my life to destroying this shadow, yet you look to stop me?” His wicked smile twisted into a grimace. “But if violence and death is all you understand, allow me to oblige.”
Others around him began to snap their fingers. Some produced tiny ice crystals that hopped up and down in their hands like silver crickets. Others held crackling bolts of static, akin to holding a lightning storm in the palm of one’s hand. With the charging mercenaries only a few steps away, Berkeni lightly blew across his palm. The tiny dancing flame spiraled outward into a raging funnel of fire. A chorus of screams cried out as the blazing tornado consumed the first wave of men. Charred bodies fell to the ground, many crumbling to small piles of ash upon impact.
Other mystics held their hands up to their mouths, waiting for more leathers to show. Each wore a sadistic expression similar to Berkeni’s...
* * *
The man in black streaked down a separate hall, holding his sword in a reverse grip, the blade riding up the side of his arm. Even at full speed, he moved along silent as death. The oblivious child yawned, swinging only slightly, as if being rocked to sleep. Needing to find a way out, the man bolted around the next corner. The tower had only been a meeting place, and Berkeni was the only one familiar with its layout. Ahead was a large stained glass window, the hallway splitting out to the left and right.
A man in brown leather came skidding around from the left side. He stopped suddenly, eyes wide as if shocked to have actually found what he was looking for. With a shake of his head, he grinned a toothless smile. Two more rounded the corner from the other direction; the three of them were now blocking the assassin’s path. They’ve fully breached the tower. I need to get Eric out of here!
Time slowed to a crawl as the assassin charged forward. Fully aware of his surroundings, he absorbed every detail like a sponge did water. The worn gray carpet under his feet. A dusty old chair leaning against the side of the hall. Each man’s contorted face twisting with rage. Their mouths roared open in slow motion, blades held high with murder in their eyes.
The man in black ran up the side wall, as if to simply zip past them without engaging at all. Each assailant froze for an instant, not sure how to deal with the odd tactic. Taking advantage of their hesitation, he flipped sideways off the wall, kicking the first in the jaw. What should have been a scream leaked out as a muffled whimper. With the man’s jaw shattered instantly, unconsciousness took him quickly.
Landing weightlessly like a nimble cat, the assassin readjusted his hold on the infant. His sword flashed as he reversed his grip again, allowing the blade’s edge to ride up the back of his forearm. Springing forward, he dashed between the next two opponents. With an upward slash, he intercepted the sword on his right in a clash of steel. In one swift motion, he dropped to one knee and spun in a circle, then reversed direction, steel flashing in two consecutive blurs.
The first mercenary stood still for a moment, sword still raised above his head. Then the gash in his stomach released its offering of innards. Gore spilled onto the floor before he crumbled to the ground. His eyes remained open, his expression virtually the same.
The other man screamed, clutching his stump of a leg with both hands. His foot and most of his shin laid against the wall now. He rolled back and forth in agony, alternating between curses and shrieks of pain. The man in black considered finishing him off, but decided against it. The mercenary was no longer a threat, and he needed to get the child out of here.
Shouts were coming from all directions now. They’re everywhere. An arrow whizzed past the back of his head, the feather brushing against his ear. It snapped against the glass window at the end of the hall. It didn’t penetrate, but caused a spiderweb-like crack. Not bothering to look back, the assassin began running again. Another arrow nicked the top of his shoulder. It, too, cracked another section of glass.
The man in black threw his sword at the window with all his might. With a hollow crunch, cracks spiraled all over the thick glass. Now at full speed, he left his feet and seemed to float in the air. He rotated his back towards the window, collapsing his legs and torso around the infant in a cannonball formation. Glass sprayed outward in a bloom of crystal as he exploded through.
Even in free fall, he kept himself wrapped around the child, making no additional efforts to brace for the impact. Splashing into the creek below, an icy chill assaulted his body. Immediately after the impact, he raised the child up, trying to keep him out of the cold water. It was shallow enough to touch bottom, so he quickly made his way to land. All the while, he carefully held the crying baby, who was wet and cold but unharmed.
* * *
After hiking alongside the shoreline for a time, he decided it was time to set up camp. Making a fire was going to be a priority. Although the rain had stopped a while ago, the collected wood was still very damp. The man in black cracked away at his flint and steel. Tiny, orange sparks flared off the steel piece, clinging to the damp leaves before quickly losing their glow. It took nearly twenty minutes to get the fire going.
He draped the damp blankets
across sticks dug into the ground. Better the child be naked than bundled in wet wrappings. The fire was going good now, and they would be dry soon enough. Then they could figure out their next move. All that mattered now was that little Eric was safe.
He groaned, clutching the wound on his side. The glass had also left cuts all over his body, but this wound was still the most serious. It would require stitching eventually, but for now it just needed to be kept clean. With one last glance at the sleeping baby, he hobbled back over to the creek.
Berkeni’s voice bounced around in his head. This night had been planned for some time, and several contingency plans had been put in place. If we get split up, meet back in Taron before the next full moon. He shook his head. That was a several days’ journey from here. I have been talking to other members of the Council. The vote is going to be close, but it looks like you have a very good chance at winning. “I don’t even know if I want the position,” the mysterious assassin mumbled to no one.
With another groan, the assassin reached up and peeled away the damp mask. Fresh, cool air blew against an exposed face. After a few hairpins were removed, long, fiery, red hair spilled down over slender shoulders. A female form was revealed, and the woman bent over and splashed cool water over her face. When the ripples calmed, she gazed down at her reflection. A mere teenager with bright green eyes stared back, the world’s troubles already weighing her down.
No matter what happens, you must get back to Taron before they become suspicious of your absence. The Council must never know of your part in this. She sighed, remembering his words. By this time next week, I truly believe you will be Queen of Taron. “I didn’t think this far ahead,” she mumbled. “I was sure this mission would claim my life. I never intended to be que—”
The spongy slurping of wet leaves underfoot broke her from her thoughts. She turned back and saw two armed men stepping into the camp. They looked uneasy, eyes darting about nervously. “We’re taking the baby,” the larger one said breathlessly. His sword swung from side to side, as if not trusting she was the only one here.
“Your black magic ends here, witch,” said the other, his voice only slightly more steady. “Your soul will burn in the afterlife for this evil.” His knuckles turned white, two hands gripping his short sword.
Ilirra smiled, ignoring the pain of her wounds. “Perhaps my soul is dammed, but I won’t be finding out this day.” She snapped her wrists into the air. Silver daggers flashed into each hand with a click. “Send the gods my regards.”
* * *
With a jolt, the Queen sat up from her bed. Her blue nightgown was damp with sweat, her hair slick and clinging to her forehead. She took several deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heartbeat, then brought a shaky hand to her side, fingers running along a white, puckered scar.
Chapter 2
The air felt cool as it penetrated her thin nightgown. Each graceful step allowed the damp fabric to press against her legs and hug her slim figure. The Queen’s smooth, graceful strides were natural, and not something she ever practiced. Ironically, the transition from warrior to royalty was only a small step in this way. Even now, she moved like a tiger stalking its prey, despite her thoughts being miles away. Forgetting she was barely decent, she drifted across the red carpet like a lost specter in the night.
Nightmares had become a regular occurrence in recent weeks. Between the pressures of commanding a kingdom and constant worry for her friends, sleep had become rather elusive these days. And lately, restless nights had been taking their toll. More and more frequently she found herself being forced to relive her past through her dreams, a former life few were even aware of; memories of events that helped shape the world, yet could never be spoken of. I cannot take back the things I’ve done. These haunting memories are the price I pay for my sins.
Her body tingled from exhaustion, but it was not enough to coax her into trying to go back to sleep. Going back to her room only to stare up at the ceiling in a restless haze did not sound appealing. What she needed was a distraction. Something to help take her mind off things she had no control over anyway.
Marching through the palace without really thinking about where she was going, the Queen found herself standing before the throne room. With an effort, she pushed one of the golden doors. Bordered with black and green grapevines that wove in and out of one another, it slowly creaked open. The chamber was empty, of course. Even if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, no one else was allowed in here without permission. On occasion, her massive bodyguards suited in red body armor would wait for her here. They were the only exception, but they were not here now.
The colorful stained glass windows appeared black in the low light given off by the few oil lanterns that were still lit. Even the long, green banner depicting a gold star hanging behind the throne remained shadowed and dark. It was shocking, really. All the time she spent here; all the meetings discussing business, taxation, and future projects for the city, and yet the chamber looked so unfamiliar now, so foreign in the low light and complete lack of activity. She found the unfamiliarity strangely comforting tonight—a comfort sorely needed in these strange times.
She tiptoed across the room, as if being careful not to awaken anyone. Absurd, really. The Queen of Taron was allowed to do as she wished, which included making all the noise she wanted. Yet tonight, she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. Tonight, she just wanted to enjoy her solitude.
Hands clasped behind her back, trying to look innocent in case the curtains had eyes, she skipped over to a weapons rack stationed near an empty suit of armor. The silver armor was completely ornamental. Heavy, bulky, and encrusted with colored jewels, the clumsy piece would never serve in real combat. But the swords seated in the rack were quite real, and of very fine quality.
Ilirra slipped out a short sword and held it up in the air. She twisted the blade left then right, causing it to twinkle even in the meager lamp light. With hardly a thought, she flipped it on its side, allowing the back of the blade to balance across her wrist. Fine craftsmanship; well balanced. A good sword, to be sure. But a queen does not play around with such things.
But instead of putting it back, she grabbed a second sword with her free hand. She twirled them in a slow circle, and then crossed the blades in front of her face with a faint clink. A queen should display proper etiquette. She must follow social protocol no matter the situation. But unfortunately, we are not living in normal times. She lowered herself into a crouch, one leg stretched out to the side and both blades pointed forward. The rules of proper etiquette no longer apply.
The room seemed too dark before her eyes. Her mind wandered backward in time, to a place she had nearly forgotten about, a time when minor decisions didn’t have the potential to affect the lives of thousands. A time when the only lives she ever worried about were her own, and the poor soul on the wrong end of her blade. I now understand why so many choose to lead a life of darkness. Leading a life of virtue will push one into an early grave. Killing...well, killing is easy. Taking a life is far easier than saving one.
There came the familiar sound of steel grinding steel while she slowly rubbed the blades together. How long had it been now? A year? A decade? The grinding blades clanged together, twirled twice around each wrist, then came to rest on the carpet as she knelt down low. At this moment, no heavy burdens hung around her neck. There would be zero accountability for anything that happened here. Ilirra Marosia, beloved Queen of Taron? No...not tonight. Her green eyes squinted against light that wasn’t there as memories of her former life began to surface. The hunter stirred within, the enforcer who had never turned her back on justice. The assassin was awake.
Her finely tuned body exploded into movement. The air whooshed as her blades began to dance in circles. Her form was perfect, transitioning smoothly from one kata to another. Steel flashed above her head, then side to side. Each sword moved in perfect harmony with the other as the dance progressed and accelerated. It was a dance
that hadn’t been performed in years, yet her muscles knew exactly what to do.
She lost herself in the dance, arms pumping, her body twisting. Although blazing fast, the movements appeared slow and fluid. Effortlessly, the forms flowed like water. Her footwork was light and graceful like a dancer’s; her heels never touched the ground while she bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet. Sweat began to run down her front and back, further dampening her nightgown. The wet fabric clung to her body as she flowed like a river. Ilirra’s mind was a thousand miles away.
Her body moving on its own, she twirled into a spinning heel kick while slashing her blades outward. The fast-moving weapons clanged loudly against something solid. The sudden impact and vibration forced her eyes open, only now realizing they had been closed. Her mind snapped back to the present, the twirling dance of blades ending abruptly.
There she stood, speechless, as the dark eyes of a hawk bore into her, her twin blades locked against his long sword. Her mouth worked wordlessly, eyes wide with shock. Few men could have sneaked up on her unnoticed. Was he even sneaking, or did he always move silently like a shadow?
“I see your skills remain sharp after all these years,” said Azek. As usual, his hard, chiseled face held all the emotion of a tree. Even standing there in his small clothes, wearing no armor or medals, the blademaster’s confidence was evident. His presence seemed to fill the room regardless of his attire.
“I–I was just– I mean,” Ilirra stammered, rattled by the sudden intrusion. How long had he been standing there? Beads of sweat ran from her temples. Her chest heaved in and out breathlessly. I’m the queen. I don’t have to explain myself to him.
“If your intent is to kill me, best get on with it,” Azek said, raising an eyebrow. A rare but unmistakable touch of humor edged his voice.
Realizing her blades were still pressed against his, she lowered the weapons. As she did, her eyes wandered down his slim physique. Shirtless in only a pair of shorts, his hardened body looked to belong to a man half his age. Carved from wood and deceptively strong, his lean body was covered with scars. Some newer, but most old and faded. A lifetime of war was displayed across his body like a mapped-out timeline. This was not the first time she had seen them, but it had certainly been a while.